


Dragon Dream

by BlackKittens



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Prophetic Dreams, Sort Of, The Blackfyre Rebellion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22037572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackKittens/pseuds/BlackKittens
Summary: It's Maekar's last night in King's Landing before he marches off to fight the Blackfyre Rebellion. Daeron has a question for him:"Do you want to know what I dreamt about last night, Father?"
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	Dragon Dream

"Do you want to know what I dreamt about last night, Father?"

Maekar's shoulders tensed. Daeron, for once, only stared up at him with a stiff lip and waiting eyes.

This was not what Maekar had expected to hear when Daeron had pleaded with his mother for more time with his father. He had expected more sniveling and whining, because unlike Aerion, Daeron was old enough to understand what war meant, and feared it greatly - in no small part thanks to his _dreams._ Daeron may well have predicted the damn Blackfyre Rebellion long before anyone, including himself, knew what it had truly meant. And tonight was Maekar's last night in King's Landing, which was why he had spent much more of the evening with his wife and their two young sons than he normally did, as he would be leaving with Baelor early in the morning to lead their father's armies against Daemon Blackfyre. Daeron had been sniveling and whining about it for weeks.

But no. Daeron, come to think of it, had been somber and mopey all day. Maekar had hardly noticed the change, attributing it to the fact he was leaving tomorrow. His eldest was only five, and he could hardly begrudge him for fearing for him so openly. Children did not have a strong grip on their emotions. But _no;_ Daeron had not pleaded with Dyanna, as she picked up Aerion and reached for his hand to put them to bed, because he simply wanted more time with Maekar. He had a dream to tell.

It made the hair on the back of his neck rise. Daeron's dreams disturbed him. They disturbed him because no less than once a week, ever since he was three, Daeron had woken up screaming bloody murder in the night. Nightmares were a normal occurrence, especially in children, but so frequently had worried his family. Why was a three year old who had never seen horror and had been pampered his entire short life having such horrible nightmares so often?

Then, they learned through Daeron's limited, childish vocabulary, how graphic and vivid those dreams were - they weren't just nightmares, they were night terrors. He had seen more detailed depictions of blood, gore, and death in his slumber than some grown men had seen in their lives. That was too peculiar and off-putting for words. Where had he learned of such things?

Maekar didn't show it (though he suspected Dyanna, Mother, and Baelor knew), but Daeron's dreams frightened him. Not because of their contents, but because his little son was thrown into screaming fits on the regular and already hated sleeping, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Nothing the maesters concocted worked well, no amount of soothing from Dyanna calmed him for long, and it wasn't as though Maekar could fight his dreams away. He had to watch his little, first born son suffer endlessly, and as irrational as it was, that made Maekar feel like a failure. He couldn't even protect his child.

Eventually, however, it had been him who came to the conclusion that if Daeron's dreams weren't going to cease, then the boy had to get used to them. Toughen up. He would see worse in reality one day, the dreams weren't real anyhow, and he needed to go to bed, damn it (Daeron's eyes were so red, the bags under them so black, and he wobbled so loosely as he walked, _including down the stairs)._ Crying to his mother and father certainly wasn't helping, so there was no point to it. He had to learn to live with it. And if Daeron would not go to bed on his own, then Maekar himself would force whatever sleep concoction the maesters recommended down his throat each night. Daeron had looked so stunned and betrayed at his proclamation, and Dyanna had glowered and avoided his bed chambers entirely for a moon, but truly, what else could they do?

As a result, Daeron didn't come to Maekar with his dream troubles anymore. Instead, he heard them through Dyanna, Mother, Father, Baelor, Rhaegel, and even Aerys. The child was sleeping at night, though, wasn't he?

Only then Daeron's dreams started to come true. Accidents around the castle, tourney deaths, reports of lords who had passed gruesomely. The dreams were almost never outright, but the symbolism was there and could be deciphered after the fact. After Daeron had a lighter dream of a star burning out as it crashed into the desert, not far from a river, and word quickly came of Dyanna's father's passing, no one could deny it anymore. Aerys in particular was fascinated by it by it, comparing Daeron to Daenys the Dreamer. Maekar did not recall stories of Daenys waking up screaming at least once a week. Perhaps, he thought scornfully, the historians had forgotten to mention it.

Why his child, Maekar had wondered. Why his son, so young? Why such terrible visions at his age? He had dreaded Aerion's third name day, fearful he would start dreaming as well. Thankfully, no such luck as of yet.

And _then_ there had been his dream several moons before Daemon turned traitor. Daeron had dreamt of a black dragon and red fighting, screeching and howling as they tore each other's throats out, while the realm burned dark and wild behind them. A black dragon and red!

Of course, Maekar hadn't heard of it directly, nor at the time it came. He heard of it from fucking Bloodraven of all people, who brought it up to Father when he began to suspect a rebellion was brewing under their noses.

So the fact that now, the night before he was to leave to fight for the red dragon against the black, Daeron was asking _him_ if he wanted to hear about his dream the night before, well...it unnerved Maekar. What in the world did he have to tell him?

"What?" he asked gruffly, to mask his apprehension. "What did you dream that's so important you waited until bed, until your mother and brother were gone, to tell me?"

"A dragon," Daeron began, voice lifting in a hurried sort of way, as if he feared being interrupted, "who flew over the world so high! It was heading for a castle, to burn it down. Except just as it opened its mouth to breath fire, the castle hurled a giant rock in the air. It smashed right into the dragon's head. I watched it fall, Father; it was dead and bleeding and the skull bone showing before it crashed into the ground. And it crashed to the ground hard."

Maekar stared, waiting for more. More detail or what happened next. When none came, Daeron only standing there waiting for a reaction, he balked. He hadn't the slightest clue what to make of that. He wasn't Aerys, so deeply invested in the mystics that he could dissect Daeron's dreams and try his best to interpret them. He usually wasn't right, because they were almost never outright, nor as obvious as Lord Dayne's death, but there were times he got some aspects right. Maekar had no such skills. The only thing he could think to hone in on was the manifestation of their sigil, and how somber and mopey Daeron had been all day. Perhaps the dream had to do with the war. "Was the dragon black or red?"

Daeron tucked his arms behind his back, utterly serious. "Neither. But it had your face, Father."

At that, he jerked back, bewildered. "My face? On a dragon? What nonsense is that?"

Daeron flinched, averting his eyes to the floor and biting his lip. "Your face wasn't on the dragon. Um, it _made_ the same face you make. You know, when you scowl."

As if to demonstrate, his son scrunched his face, but the result seemed to Maekar more like an angry pout than a scowl. It certainly wasn't an expression he wore.

"How can a dragon," he asked sternly, "have the features necessary to make a scowl? They are dragons, Daeron, not human."

"I don't know," he shrugged, returning his gaze to the floor and bracing his shoulders. "But I knew it was you. I did! In the dream, I could tell, because it made the same face you make."

The dragon was him.

The dragon had died.

Maekar refused to accept that. He would not. The seven hells would raise up into their world before he accepted, without a doubt, that he would certainly die in the upcoming war. He was willing to die for his father, for his entire family, yes, but he would not; he had no desire to die, to never seen Dyanna, Daeron, Aerion, his brothers, or Mother and Father again. If he did die, it would be taking Daemon and Bittersteel with him, but he would not. He could not. Nor could his five year old tell him so.

"That's nonsense," he repeated. "You've never been able to tell who or what was represented in your dreams. If the dragon could scowl, then that doesn't mean it was me; perhaps it was only angry at whoever lived in that castle that made it want to burn them all to ash."

"No, no!" Daeron shook his head wildly. His eyes filled with tears. "It was you! I know it! You're going to die, Father, if you go near any castles hurling rocks! Say you won't go near any. I don't want you to die. You're mean, but I don't want you to die!"

Maekar chafed. He was 'mean,' what the bloody hells did that mean? If he were harsher with him, Daeron would want him to die? He ought to clout the boy for that. Even if he meant no such thing or harm, it was still a disrespectful thing to say, much less to his princely father. He ought to ring his head like a bell.

Instead, he kneeled to his level. Not tonight, he decided tiredly. Not when Maekar was heading off for battle at first light and, honestly, he may well never see Daeron again after all. Much as he didn't want to and would fight against it, he _could_ die out there. He would die, if it meant his kingly father's victory. He might die and Daemon Blackfyre might win anyway. He didn't want his last encounter with Daeron, or Daeron's last memory of him, to be of a hard knock to the head.

"I'll promise no such thing," he told him firmly. "If I'm to attack a castle in order to win this war, I'll do it. If I don't, your grandfather may lose the Iron Throne, and where will that leave you? Dead, that's where. You, your brother, your mother, your aunts, uncles, and cousins, and of course your grandparents. I will never allow it."

That was not a difficult concept to understand, in Maekar's view, yet Daeron seemed to miss it anyway.

Small body trembling, he yelled, "I don't want you to die!"

Does anyone? Maekar wanted to argue. No, no one does. He couldn't think of a single man, soldier, or knight who was _eager_ to die. Men fought to live, not perish.

But if Daeron couldn't understand that he was going to fight for their lives, he doubted he would understand that. Arguing it would gain him nothing.

Maekar's shoulders slackened slightly before he caught himself.

What _was_ he to say? He had never been good with crying children. When either of their sons cried, either Dyanna or a servant dealt with them, not him. He had held them in his lap, told them stories of their ancestors because it made their large eyes go wide, and disciplined them, but that was as far as it went. He loved his sons, truly, but at their ages, too young to hold even a wooden sword, what was he to do with them? What was he to do when his five year old full of prophetic dreams feared so deeply for his life? Maekar wasn't as charismatic as Baelor, clever as Aerys, or gentle as Rhaegel; what could he say to chase if not all, then at least the worst of his fears away? Under these circumstances, watching Daeron cry actually made his heart hurt.

"Come here," he finally spat, swooping the boy up and standing. "Look at me."

Daeron reluctantly looked him in the eyes. The tears were little streams on his cheeks.

Something inside Maekar crumbled. He wished Dyanna were here, or Mother, or even fucking Baelor, Aerys, or Rhaegel. Someone to tell him what to do with this damn child who had such a grip on his heart.

"I won't die," he grouched, settling on it for lack of a better alternative. "For the gods' sake, Daeron, I've no intention of lying down to die. Don't you think I want to come back to you? If I have anything to do say about it, I won't be dying, and I'm certain I'll have a damn say about it!"

Daeron blubbered something incoherent. Maekar couldn't make out a single word.

"Stop that," he ordered, giving the boy a shake. Inside, however, he was quickly losing confidence. Where was Dyanna? Surely Aerion was asleep by now. "I'm not going to die. You want me to promise it? Fine. I won't die, Daeron, I swear it. I swear it!"

Eventually, Daeron managed to find his voice and speak real words. "I - I - don't - wa-want y-you t-to - "

"We'll have none of that!" Maekar cut in. "I won't. When the war is finished and Blackfyre's head sits on a pike, I'll come home. I'll - you'll surely be old enough by then, I'll teach you how to hold a sword. A wooden one, you're not ready for steel. We'll train in the yard every day with Baelor and his boys, do you hear? It will happen. It will happen!"

Daeron stopped blabbering long enough to gawk at him incredulously. "...What about - " he swallowed uncomfortably, "what about - the - rocks - ?"

Maekar didn't know if he even approach any castles. It depended on how the war went and Father's orders changed. He needed Daeron to stop crying, though. He wanted to chase away at least one of the boy's fears. "I will not run away like a craven. I will, however, avoid every one. I will come back, Daeron. That, I promise."

He would drag Blackfyre, Bittersteel, Fireball, and all the rest of them to the deepest hell with him if they made a liar of him.

Daeron looked uncertain. But rather than voice whatever he was thinking, he threw his arms around Maekar's neck, a gesture that stunned the man - Daeron had never hugged him like this - and buried his face in the crook of it.

Maekar sighed. His own child was beyond him. He couldn't wait until Daeron was older, could understand war and death better than any _dream_ could teach him. Perhaps one day they would fight side by side one another, in defense of Baelor. Perhaps this would become a distant memory Daeron would laugh sheepishly at, while Maekar pursed his lips quietly and silently recalled how low his son's fears and tears had once brought him. Perhaps. He hoped so.

"I'll teach you how to hold a sword," he promised. He rubbed Daeron's back. "I will not die out there."

Daeron shuddered, but the crying seemed to stop.

Maekar waited a moment to confirm it. "There. Now it is time for bed. Let's go find your mother."

In response, Daeron's arms tightened around him. He let them be, adjusting his own grip a bit tighter as they headed for the door.

No matter what, his son's dream wasn't going to come true, not in this way. He would come home.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write Maekar and Daeron having somewhat of a tender moment, so this happened.
> 
> Daeron's dream in this fic is actually referring to Maekar's later death at Starpike in 233, but because his dreams aren't specific with the details and are often symbolic, five year old Daeron assumed it was referring to the first Blackfyre Rebellion.
> 
> Maekar's pretty lenient or soft (whatever's the appropriate word) here because his son is only five, hasn't shown himself to be a disappointment yet, and I imagine it must be pretty terrifying to watch your little kid lose sleep over horrifying nightmares on a regular basis (though maybe I'm going too far with at least once a week, but meh), and as adamant as Maekar is on surviving, he knows this could be the last time he sees Daeron because he *could* die in battle (however that actually happens).


End file.
